


nothing to see here

by badtemperedchocolate



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: 5 Things, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-27 22:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20767856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtemperedchocolate/pseuds/badtemperedchocolate
Summary: or: five totally normal days at work, and then one that maybe wasn't.





	1. swept away

**Author's Note:**

> this is 100% fictional.

Claire’s not tall.

She’s aware of this. It’s usually not too much of an issue. But today, she’s searching for this one particular pan – it’s an older model that someone had picked up over in Holland, she thinks, but wherever it’s from, it’s the perfect thickness for the chocolate-cinnamon syrup she’s making. And of _course_ it’s not in one of the lower cabinets. As nice as the test kitchen looks on camera, the cabinets are a mess. There are just too many different chefs sharing the same space; nothing ever ends up in the same place twice.

She could ask for help, but she’s feeling determined today, so she drags a stepstool around to check the highest cabinets. Sure enough, that stupid pan is back by the walk-in, way on the top shelf. But it’s stuck; the cabinet is a chaotic jumble of random kitchen appliances and tools, and she tugs, but there are about eight things in the way and she can’t get it out.

It’s late enough in the day that she’s lost her patience, so she grits her teeth, stretches up on her toes, and yanks. She feels it catch, pulls harder, and then suddenly, without warning, it gives.

Claire lets out a yelp, reaching forward instinctively, but she misses the door and falls backward off the stepstool, and her eyes shut and she braces for what’s going to be a painful impact –

\- but instead of hitting the floor, she finds herself in Brad’s arms.

She’s too startled to do anything but blink, staring up at him in utter confusion. She hadn’t even realized he was behind her, and suddenly she’s cradled against his chest.

“Hey, Claire.”

“Hi.” It’s more a reflex than anything.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Uh.” Her brain seems to have short-circuited somewhere between reaching for a pan and finding herself pressed up against Brad Leone’s chest. “I needed this.”

He looks down at the pan she’s somehow still clutching against her chest. “I can see that.”

Molly huffs from her station nearby, clearly relieved now that she can see Claire’s no longer in mortal peril. “Nice catch, Brad.”

“Thanks.” Brad looks back at Claire. “You’re headed back to your station, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“’Kay.”

But instead of setting her down, he turns, still holding her against his chest, and Claire lets out a little noise of protest. “Brad!”

“What? Gotta make sure you don’t break, Half-Sour. Safety first.”

He carries her to her station like she weighs nothing, much to the amusement of Molly and Gaby nearby, and finally sets her down on her feet with surprising gentleness. His hand lingers warmly against the small of her back. “You okay?”

“I – yeah. I’m good. Thanks.” Her cheeks are on fire. She wonders how obvious it is.

“Anytime.” He leans over the counter, grinning at her on her own level, and the warmth in his eyes is surprisingly sincere. “Hey, be careful, okay? Don’t want you gettin’ hurt.”

“I will.”

“Good.” He squeezes her shoulder gently. “All right! Happy cooking.”

He strolls off, leaving Claire flustered, tongue-tied, and trying to remember exactly why she needed this stupid pan in the first place.

* * *

It shows up in the background of one of Chris' videos, but it's out of focus, barely more than a muffled yelp and a flash of movement on the edge of the screen. In the final edit, Chris turns around to look, then looks back at the camera and shrugs. "You just never know what's going to happen here," he deadpans before returning to his test recipe.

Brad carrying her across the kitchen doesn't show up at all. Claire knows she should probably be relieved, but for some reason she feels the slightest sense of loss.


	2. to the nines

Brad’s not a fashion guy.

He’s never been a fashion guy, and that’s fine. Amiel can do the fancy little neck scarf doodads. Rapo’s got the clean-cut, business-but-modern thing going on, and it’s cool. Brad wears shirts and pants. That works for him.

He knows next to nothing about women’s fashion, but he likes Claire’s clothes. They just seem right for her. He likes her colorful dresses that suit her beaming smile and sparkling eyes. He likes the soft cozy sweaters that make her look like she’s ready to curl up in an armchair by the fireplace. He’s not entirely sure how those jumpsuit things work, but she looks tiny and cute in them. He like her simple jeans and t-shirts that look so comfortable, so natural, so soft and pretty, like the girl next door. Who just happened to study at Harvard and McGill.

He certainly doesn’t sneak the occasional glance to appreciate the way her jeans fit her backside. It’s just…incidental. Claire is Claire, and he always thinks she looks nice.

But this – this is something new.

It’s a Thursday evening, just late enough in the day that folks are getting ready to leave, and Brad’s just about done with his last batch of dough when he hears someone wolf-whistle.

He’s not the only one who does a double-take when Claire walks into the kitchen in a little black dress that – well. _Well_.

If his brain hadn’t short-circuited the minute he saw her, Brad would realize that 90% of the time he sees Claire, she’s wrapped in an apron, so of course anything more fitted is going to be a drastic change. Instead, he just stares. 

He may not be a fashion guy, but he’s not blind. And Claire – who’s always pretty – is wearing a little black dress he’s never seen her in, something short and snug that skims the curve of her hips and hugs her narrow waist and leaves her shoulders bare, the soft, pale skin of her throat and the notch of her collarbones and this is definitely not something he should be feeling and then she looks up and meets his eyes and _Oh shit what am I doing again?_

“Hey, Brad.”

“Half-Sour.” His voice cracks. Damn it. “Lookin’ good.”

“Thanks.” She flushes softly, looking down, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s done something with her makeup – what, he’s got no idea – but her eyes look darker, her lashes so long, and her mouth is soft and warm and it takes him a good few seconds to tear his eyes away.

“What’d you do, get tall?”

She looks down at her heels. “They’re not that high, Brad.”

“Still.” He shrugs. “Different view.”

She shoots him an affectionate, exasperated look, and okay, maybe he’s coming across a little dense, but between the dress and the soft, pale line of her neck and the pair of heels that push her up towards his mouth, Brad’s just feeling a little off-balance right now.

She leans around him to peer curiously into the bowl – he’s glad she doesn’t ask him what he’s working on, because at this moment he does not remember what it is or why he’s here – and he’s momentarily floored by the sweet, spicy scent of her perfume drifting around him like a scarf.

He shuts his eyes briefly, telling himself to get a grip. “So, uh – big plans tonight?”

She shrugs. “A couple of friends are in town. We’re making it a girls’ night.”

“Oh, nice.” He certainly doesn’t feel a sense of relief. There’s no reason at all he should feel tense at the thought of Claire going out with some guy. Looking like this. He’s not even noticing, honestly. “Sounds like fun.”

“Yeah.” She beams up at him. “You going home?”

“Soon as I finish up.”

She tells him good night, and he must say something that satisfies her, because she smiles and turns to leave. Brad’s only human, though, and if he turns to watch her walk away, well. He’ll never admit it. Even to himself.

Except before he can look away, she pauses at the door, looking back over her shoulder. Her eyes meet his, and for a second, Brad’s stomach lurches, because he knows he’s shit at hiding anything from her, and there’s no possible way she can’t see what he knows is written all over his face.

But she surprises him. Instead of embarrassment, avoidance, whatever he might have expected, she smiles. Bites her lip. Walks off with what he can only describe as a sway in her hips.

Brad takes a deep breath, looking back down at the bowl in front of him, trying to remember what the hell he was doing before she walked in.


	3. the great meringue collision

Claire doesn’t actually see it happen.

She’s in the hallway, talking over production details with Adam, when there’s a loud yelp from the kitchen, followed by peals of laughter.

They stare at each other for a moment – Claire knows that sound fairly well – and Adam smiles ruefully. “Do I even want to go look?”

“Oh, sure. How bad can it be?” she muses, following him towards the test kitchen.

Sure enough, the kitchen is in utter chaos. From what she can see, there was some kind of collision, and she doesn’t know who was working on what, but there’s a frothy meringue-looking substance _everywhere_. The counters, the floor, the closest stand mixer. And Brad, who’s covered in it.

Molly ducks out from behind him, spoon in hand. “Jeez, Brad. You saved me.”

He’s grinning as he wipes his eyes. “Everyone okay, yeah?”

Gaby comes hurrying over. “What on earth –”

“It’s my fault,” Molly tells her. “My fault. Brad tried to catch it.”

Gaby nods. “Okay. Everyone all right? We can clean it up. Brad?” She waves a hand. “Go wash up.”

“Got it.” Brad trots off, still grinning, and Adam lets out a laugh.

“Good to see this kitchen is as professional as ever.”

* * *

The kitchen resumes its regular hum of activity, and Claire heads for the elevators.

There’s flour on her arm – sort of the normal state of things for her – so as she passes the bathroom, she reaches for the door handle, but then she looks up. The door’s cracked open, but the bathroom’s not empty.

Brad’s standing in front of the sink, splashing water over his face. His cap’s perched on the towel dispenser beside him, still spattered with meringue, and as she watches, he peels off his t-shirt.

_Oh_.

Claire’s mouth goes dry, her feet refusing to move. His shirt is draped over the edge of the sink, and he’s scrubbing his hands and wrists clean, totally oblivious to her presence.

She sucks in a breath, watching his biceps flex, the broad line of his muscular shoulders. It’s not that she didn’t _know_ – she remembers trying to pull back on his bow – but his arms are more muscular than she’d realized, and there’s a coarse dusting of hair over his chest. His jeans sit low on his hips, and if he turns just enough –

She flushes hotly, taking a step back and dragging her eyes away. _What the hell am I doing?_

She hightails it down the hallway and stabs the elevator button with far more energy than necessary, sternly telling herself _That was entirely unprofessional_ even as she bites her lip and glances back down the hallway to see if he’s come back out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to professortennant for sending me Very Important Scientific Research in the form of a shirtless Brad pic. For reasons that were obviously totally professional and not at all self-indulgent.


	4. balanced flavor

Claire’s having a good day.

It’s just a really, really good day.

“Ooh! Okay. This is really good.” She grins at the camera and turns around. “Brad! You wanna try this? I think I finally nailed it.”

“Gimme.” His hands are covered in sticky soft dough, and he wrinkles his nose. “Any chance I can get that delivered? I’m kinda –”

“Sure.” She chuckles, ripping off a corner of her latest attempt at a Cinnabon. She loves baking challenges. “The balance of sweet and savory was kind of eluding me for a while, but I think fixing the clove ratio and the icing, and adding just a hint of lemon, it just all works better.”

“Sure, sure. Lemme try.”

She carries the bit of pastry over to his station, right hand underneath to catch any drips of warm, gooey icing, and holds it out, but Brad shrugs, his hands still buried in a huge batch of sweet dough. “Up here.”

“Seriously?” she huffs.

“Well, I’m kinda in the middle of something right now, Claire,” Brad insists, as if she regularly just comes over to feed him by hand. “You’re like a momma bird, just pop that worm in my mouth!”

She wrinkles her nose. “That’s disgusting.”

“_C’monnnn_, Claire. Lemme try. Smells great.”

“Uh – okay –”

Claire holds the bite up for him. He eyes it, grins, and leans down to catch it between his teeth. His eyes light up, and he nods, murmuring _mmhmm, mmhmm_ since he can’t speak at the moment.

“Yeah?” she asks eagerly. She needs his feedback. Or wants it, anyway.

The icing is messy, and before she can pull her hand away, Brad sucks her thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue over it to get the flavor.

The rough of his tongue rasps over the pad of her thumb, and her lips part involuntarily. His eyes never leave hers, his regular easy-going demeanor vanished.

He finally releases her thumb with a soft, wet _pop_, and she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“Good.” He swallows. “Tastes good.”

Claire blinks, trying to find her composure. “It’s, uh, not too sweet?”

“Just sweet enough.”

His voice is rougher than usual, and between that and the blazing intensity in his eyes, she swallows hard. She feels hot all over. She has to walk away. Right now.

“Great. Thanks.” She clears her throat, wiping oddly unsteady hands on her apron as she returns to her station. “Okay.”

Dan leans out from behind the camera, the beginnings of a smug look on his face, and she’s sure the red in her cheeks reads clear as day on the screen.

“What?” she demands, tucking her hair behind her ear nervously. She knows she sounds more abrupt than is really polite, but she can’t help it.

He shrugs, clearly reading her tone. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Moving on.”


	5. la rêve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay here's the deal I am absolute trash

Claire gets to the kitchen unusually early.

She’s usually the least morning of morning people, but for once she’s there well ahead of her 9:15 calltime. Brandishing her iced coffee like a life preserver, she smiles faintly at Gaby and the few crew guys who are getting set up as she walks to her station.

It’s blissfully quiet as she tucks away her purse, slides her phone into her pocket, and ties on an apron. There’s a real charm to a peaceful kitchen, she has to admit. Even though she woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep, at least she can relax for the little time she’s got to herself. 

She’s halfway through a recipe book, sticky notes and pen nearby, when she hears a familiar sound. Brad’s voice cuts across the entire kitchen. She’s heard Hunzi and Dan complaining about it; apparently it’s an absolute nightmare when they’re trying to edit sound.

Claire takes a breath.

She stays focused on her book, but of course a second later, he’s calling out. “Well, look who’s here bright and early! Morning, Half-Sour.”

_(She feels his presence behind her before she sees him._

_He sweeps her hair gently off her shoulder. The scratch of his beard makes her shiver as he leans over to press a soft line of kisses to her throat. “Hey, gorgeous.”)_

Claire blinks away the images and smiles wanly, turning to find him tying on his own apron and beaming at her. “Hey, Brad.”

He claps his hands together enthusiastically. “You ready to make those bad boys?”

She drags her eyes away from his fingers. “I guess so.”

He wanders off, talking to someone else, and Claire hopes it’s not painfully obvious that she had a dream about him last night that left her sweaty and gasping.

She takes a deep breath. She can do this. It’s going to be fine.

* * *

And for a while, it’s fine.

It’s not like she hasn’t been nursing a little crush on Brad for the better part of her time here, anyway. She always laughs and blushes when he pops up at her station with his oddly-helpful suggestions. So maybe it’s not so weird. He hovers nearby, says things, she laughs. And if she laughs a little more than usual, no one seems to notice.

But then she finds herself wrestling with a bizarre model of mixer that no one ever uses. It was actually dusty when she’d dug it out, which had led to a brief break in filming while she’d washed it. And then washed it again with some white vinegar. Just to be on the safe side. It’s got the perfect paddle attachment for the dough she’s working on – not to mention, all the other mixers are in use at the moment – but it’s finicky and rickety and older than anyone in the test kitchen and why is she doing this again?

When it runs, it wobbles, but it stalls more than it runs, and she grumbles under her breath, trying to figure out where she’s going wrong. And of _course_ it was designed for someone right-handed. Because the universe hates her.

“No, no. Here. Like this.”

Before she can move, react, something, Brad leans in to show her, his hands covering hers with firm, precise pressure, and she can’t stop herself from sucking in a sharp breath.

_(She squirms as his fingers trail up her thigh, his thumb hooking into the soft fabric of her underwear and tugging it aside._

_“I’m a chef, babe,” he murmurs into her ear. “I’m good with my hands.”_

_She lets out a laugh, but it’s shaky, her hands tightly gripping the counter in front of her. Her entire body is flooded with heat, her skin hyperaware of how close he is, his presence hot and solid and overpowering as he crowds up behind her._

_“You know what else, Claire?” he whispers, letting his mouth drag over her throat. She tries to say something, but she’s too worked up to do anything more than shudder at the heat of his breath on her skin. “I can be very – _very – _patient.”_

_His thick fingers dip inside her and she lets out a strangled cry, her eyes flickering shut. His thumb circles over her clit, light and teasing. She can feel him grinning against her throat, the smug asshole, but as the pleasure coils tight and hot at the base of her spine, all Claire can do is plead incoherently –_

\- and then she woke up flushed, sweaty, aching, and reaching between her legs to finish herself off, his name on her lips as she clenched around fingers she imagined were his.)

She snatches her hands away from Brad like she’s been burned, turning around, trying to ignore the flush on her cheeks.

“Hunzi, can we take a few minutes?”

She doesn’t wait to hear his response; she walks away, hands on her hips, taking a few seconds to try and slow her breathing. This is _ridiculous_.

“Claire? You okay?”

She turns to find Brad behind her – of _course_ – looking worried. She can’t blame him; she walked off pretty abruptly.

“Yeah, yeah. Fine.”

He nods slowly, still not convinced. “Something wrong?”

“What? No. No, it’s fine. Sorry.” She shakes her head. _Get it together, Claire_. “Just – zoned out for a second.”

“Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to –”

“_Brad._” Claire covers her face, gritting her teeth to stop herself from blurting out something she’ll regret like _I dreamed about you pushing me up against that kitchen island and putting your hands up my dress and I really, really enjoyed it_. “Can we just – it’s fine, okay? I’m sorry. Can we move on?”

He still doesn’t look convinced, but he tilts his head, looking at her with curiosity on his face. Claire bites her lip, even as warmth floods her cheeks under his keen gaze. She’s always been shit at hiding things from Brad. He _gets_ her, knows exactly what she needs and what she’s thinking, and she has the irrational fear that if she cracks, if she blinks, he’s going to realize just what she did while gasping his name in her bed this morning.

“Okay.” He nods slowly. “Okay. Just – tell me if something’s wrong, okay?”

“Yeah. I will.”

She follows him back out to her station.

Minor setback. Everything’s still fine.

She’s just not going to think about it. Ever again.


	6. a switch is flipped

When Claire wakes up Tuesday morning, she doesn’t know she’s going to kiss Brad that day.

She walks into the test kitchen four minutes early, which is nice, but not unusual enough to stand as a signpost for this kind of thing.

Brad’s already there talking to Chris, and she spares them a wave as she walks by. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. Brad grins at her, and her heart flutters in her chest as she smiles back, but that’s nothing new, after all. Finding Brad attractive has become such a normal part of her day that it barely even registers anymore. It’s just the reality of her daily life, as regular as the apron she ties over her clothes.

* * *

At one point, their eyes meet across two separate kitchen islands, but even the soft warmth that floods her veins when he smiles at her for no reason – even that still doesn’t tip her off, because it happens all the time.

(Later, she’ll think about baselines and the idea of a status quo and come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, she should have seen it coming long before she did.)

* * *

The day goes on with no further clues.

It’s a normal day in the test kitchen – Molly was right about their resting state being chaos, but at Bon Appétit, chaos is more of a sliding scale than a real endpoint – and Claire finds herself focusing intently on her current project.

(Okay, so _maybe_ once or twice she stole a glance at Brad’s arms. But that was totally accidental. She’s a professional. And it’s not like she’s the only one whose gaze just happens to linger over his biceps.)

There’s been enough clamor for her to recreate Milano cookies that she couldn’t avoid it any longer. But she’s found herself liking this one. Baking challenges are still challenges, of course, but at least it’s her wheelhouse. She’s determined to create the best cookies anyone’s ever made. Milanos are already pretty popular in the test kitchen, she’d discovered on her first day filming the intro. Brad had crammed an entire one in his mouth before she could do more than laugh.

The dough hits the right consistency on her second try – it was all about finding the perfect ratio of all-purpose flour, cake flour, and rice flour so maintain the perfect gluten ratio, turns out – and as she preps a test batch for the oven, she has a good feeling about this. This is a good cookie day, she thinks.

There’s a real satisfaction about the warm baking sheet, dotted with perfectly-spaced rounds of pale dough, and as she shuts the oven door and sets the timer, Claire muses, if this is the best thing that happens to her today, she’ll be perfectly satisfied.

Brad watches as she pops the tray in the oven. “You’re looking cheerful today. Not even Half-Sour!”

She doesn’t look at his hands. She _doesn’t_. “So what would that make me?”

He shrugs. “Sweet, I guess. You’re sweet.”

He wanders off to whatever other shiny thing there is to catch his attention, leaving Claire staring after him, not sure if it was a joke or if she should be blushing as furiously as she is.

Her phone buzzes; Adam wants to know if she’s got two minutes to talk production stuff upstairs, so she shrugs and tells Dan she’ll be back in a sec.

* * *

Claire ends up chatting with Adam and Chris in the hallway upstairs; production has been tossing around a lot of interesting ideas for future episodes of _Making Perfect_, and she’s delighted to hear they’re spitballing ideas ranging from New Orleans Mardi Gras cuisine to a survey of fusion recipes from the Philippines. Apparently the budget department trusts them enough to send them further than Massachusetts. She starts mentally flicking through whatever she knows about beignets, making a note to herself to start researching alternative pastry flours based on local cuisine and how she might –

And that’s when she remembers.

“Oh, _shit_.”

Adam and Chris look at her quizzically, and she raises a hand, already backing away. “I’m sorry – I have to –”

Her stomach drops as she glances at a clock on the wall and realizes she’s completely forgotten her latest test batch in the ovens for almost fifteen minutes now – _oh no, oh no no no no_ – and she bolts for the elevators, scurrying down the hallway with her heart in her throat. It was all going so well. Too well. She should have known nothing is ever –

But as she turns the corner to what should be wisps of smoke curling from the oven, the acrid smell of burned pastry, and everyone glaring at her for smoking up the kitchen, instead she sees everything in order. The oven off.

A tray of perfectly-browned cookies sitting at her station.

She stops. Stares. Dan’s fiddling with his camera, poking at one of the million dials, but he perks up when he sees her. “Hey, Claire! I was going to steal one. They look great.”

She holds a hand over the tray. It’s almost completely cool to the touch. “Did you take them out?”

“Brad did.” Dan shrugs. “He said to tell you they weren’t quite done when the timer went off, so he put them back in for another minute and a half.”

“Oh.”

She stands there at her station, staring down at the tray of cookies, and she has no idea why her eyes are stinging.

Because they’re just cookies.

It’s a small test batch of cookies that she could make again if she had to. But she doesn’t, because they’re perfect. She screwed up, but they’re perfect. Because Brad remembered her putting them in the oven, heard the timer go off, realized she wasn’t there, and took it upon himself to fix it.

And now she’s staring at a baking sheet, her heart in her throat, and something cracks open in her chest, something warm and liquid and soft and unstoppable.

“Claire?” She looks up to find Dan watching her, confused. “Something wrong?”

“I, uh. No. No.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?”

“Sure.”

* * *

He’s not in the test kitchen. He’s not in the walk-in.

How on earth is the tallest, loudest person at Bon Appétit this hard to find?

Claire’s almost out of ideas when she sees an orange baseball cap across the maze of cubicles. She lets out a breath, wiping her hands on her apron as she crosses the floor towards him.

Brad’s sitting at the desk, scrolling quietly through his phone. He’s completely, totally oblivious to her, and as she stands there, looking down at him, Claire realizes – she doesn’t have a plan. Why is she here?

But there’s something welling up inside her, something warm and soft and overpowering, and in a split second, she knows: it was never _if_, just _when_.

Of course just as she freezes and panics and starts fumbling for something to say, he looks up, his face brightening as he sees her. “Oh, hey, Claire.” He sets his phone down. “I hope you don’t mind I took your cookies outta the oven. I didn’t know where you were, so I just –”

Before he can finish, Claire leans in, puts her hands on his face, and kisses him.

It’s bright and unexpected and too quick and _perfect_, because he doesn’t hesitate, just kisses her back. It’s warm and soft and as sweet as the perfect chocolate blend and she thinks her heart is about to burst out of her chest because she’s never, ever felt like this before.

When she finally opens her eyes, Claire finds Brad looking up at her with an expression she’s seen before, so many, many times. It’s warm and open and vulnerable, and it hits her square in the chest because _maybe he knew, all this time_, and she’s just now figured it all out and it’s all too much.

_Oh._

She swallows, finally finding her voice. “Thank you for saving the cookies.”

His face breaks into a grin, broad and open and so honest that she catches her breath. He’s _beaming_ at her, his eyes crinkling.

“You’re welcome.”

His hands settle on her waist, big and warm and steady. For once she’s taller than him. It’s weird. It’s all weird, standing here under the fluorescent lights of the cubicles. But his smile is bright as the sun, and is she imagining it, or has he always looked at her like this, like she’s the only person around, like she’s all he cares about?

Claire runs her hands over the broad stretch of his shoulders, smoothing the soft, worn flannel. “I, uh.” She’s running out of words, especially when Brad traces her mouth with his thumb, and it’s light and teasing and the touch sends heat flickering through her body.

“Well jeez, Claire.” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “All I had to do is take a tray out of the oven?”

She slaps his shoulder half-heartedly, but she can’t stop smiling.

* * *

Carla catches them two hours later, because as it turns out, people _do _notice when you take an extra half hour on your lunch break to slip into the empty conference room to make out.

She arches an eyebrow as Claire scrambles off of Brad’s lap, trying to smooth her hair and tug her shirt back down, while Brad doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands

“We, uh.” Claire’s struggling for words, and it feels like her face is on fire. “We – were just –”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Carla folds her arms. “Claire, hon, Dan’s looking for you in the kitchen.”

“Right. Thanks.” Claire brushes her hands on her apron. Not much she can do about her flushed face, not if she wants her makeup to stay put for filming.

Carla turns, like she’s about to leave, but pauses to glance back at them with amused affection. “I _knew_ it.”

She’s gone before they can do more than stare.

* * *

At 5:34pm precisely, Claire walks out of One WTC with him, their arms brushing. As they descend the steps to the subway, his fingers graze hers, and without thinking more about it, she reaches for his hand, lacing their fingers together as they wait for the train back to her place.

She hadn’t expected to kiss Brad Leone today.

But maybe she should have.


End file.
